To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
Click Here To add this poem to your "Voting Possibilities" list!
Written 12:53: I begin between these black lines-- white spaces blinking back-- my two hands outstretched crafting nothing; I cannot write; crossed; blocked, stoppages, tea cup emptied, usual tricks limp-- my muse bereft, I am alone with the fulsomeness of it. 1:15 My Gods are all adrift. My well's dig down out of reach; my mind's fount's dry--asleep. Panic now. 1:35 Poetry's realm lost to me-- a cruel feeling. That which came before so easily is now silouetted dimly. I cry a dry uncryable tear. 2:35 I cup a new cup of cold tea. 3:03 Whatever this is come to me gradually curiosity now feels greater than my writer's grief. I want to see the outline this specter is-- to write when nothing's there no face no driven ideas no words span no creativity transformed or fixed.... 3:33 Hushed I lie down with it; my bed of paradox-- it's experience embraced. I am swept to the surrender of writing about the nothingness at my pen, now shaking. 4:53 three drafts; a small epiphany: Ample is all experience no blank lines will ever reach or witness. By this my last lines written after 4:53 from listlessness and nothing to expressions of same-- poetically-- minor miracle this. |
Sorry, there are no critiques for this poem in our system... If the poem is older, the critiques have been purged!